Spilled Wide Open
by storybycorey
Summary: It's Sunday, & the state of her purse is a brutal reflection of her preceding week. One may even see a receipt peeking from a pocket, a wrapper falling from an open zipper. If she were more aware of such things, she would realize that her own emotions are slipping through the cracks as well, becoming more visible, despite her ever-so-carefully-constructed façade. TL: post Per Manum


She is a lot like her handbag. Classic, refined, subdued. Beautifully composed. But within the confines of fine leather and elegant buckles, there is a quiet turmoil, a contained chaos that rarely finds its way into the light.

The more stressful her life, the more disorganized her bag, though she's never stopped to notice the correlation before.

Sometimes it's preferable being blissfully unaware of one's own neuroses.

It's Sunday late afternoon, and the state of her purse is a brutal reflection of her preceding week, so much so that one may even see a stray receipt peeking from a pocket, a gum wrapper falling from an open zipper. If she were more aware of such things, she would realize that her own emotions are slipping through the cracks as well, becoming more and more visible, despite her ever-so-carefully-constructed facade.

She settles on the couch to attempt a weekly cleanout, grateful for a task that is easily executed, thankful for an innocuous place to rest her brain.

Outside pockets first, as she disposes of an expired yogurt coupon, a granola bar wrapper, and a broken rubber band. A business card and fifty-three cents worth of stray change are deposited back into her wallet. Then onto the inside, where receipts from three trips to the coffee cart are tossed in the trash, and those from two days worth of rental cars are placed in a pile to be filed. A few more wrappers, a paper clip, a stray breathmint, an old shopping list, thirty-one more cents, and finally, she is done.

It's an amazing sense of accomplishment, de-cluttering one's purse. If only straightening out one's brain were just as painless.

She reaches for the shopping list on the table, glancing through it before banishing it to the trash bin, making sure nothing was missed during her last trip to the store. Her eyes and pen skip quickly from one item to the next—bottled water, check; yogurt, check; spinach, check; aspirin, check; face cream, check… And as she continues down the list, she almost misses it, she almost takes her red pen and marks the task complete. With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she begins the downward stroke of the checkmark, barely registering the word that floats so innocently on the page before her.

But within a second, her brain catches up (her damn brain and its superb attention to detail). Her brain catches up and she stops, dead in her tracks and ceasing to breathe. The word expands, swelling and intensifying until it vibrates before her eyes, the only thing she can see, black ink on a white slip of paper, harmless by nature, but absolutely devastating in context. Because she had purposely skipped this item at the store, she had purposely left it for the next trip, hoping that by then, it may not be necessary. She had hoped it may not be necessary for another nine months.

Tampons.

The word whispers in her ears, taunting, sneering, laughing at the power it's suddenly seized over her body, her mind. It squeezes itself around her chest, choking a sob from her throat, forcing her to sit back down in order to breathe.

Overcome, she grabs the red pen and scribbles, scratching, obliterating the letters until they are no longer legible. Until the word no longer exists on the white of the paper.

But in the end, the ink just looks like blood, dripping, seeping across the page, further reminding her of the tangible message her body will send her in just a few days, scrawled across a piece of toilet paper like a courtroom verdict. She has been handed a life sentence, forced upon her through no fault of her own. She will forever exist in a home without children, she will forever be trapped in a body that has failed her, again and again. A body that took her very last chance and stomped on it, ground it into the earth until it was unrecognizable and gone, leaving her only with an empty womb and a handbag that is spilling at the seams.

She squeezes shut her eyes, willing the tears not to fall, willing her emotions back inside the tucked-together purse of her body, vowing not to allow them loose again. _Breathe, breathe_ , she tells herself, having become quite adept at self-containment throughout the years. And only when she feels she's fully regained her composure does she open them again, ready to get on with the evening.

Until she sees the damned purse sitting there on the coffee table, mocking her with its neatness, not a speck of chaos in sight. Impulsively, she sweeps out her arm and spills the bag's contents clear across the room, delighting in the satisfying clatter as lipsticks and pens and keys and wallet litter the floor.

There, she thinks, tears stinging her eyes, you aren't so put-together now, are you?

….

When she hears the knock on her door, she is startled, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. But there is no time to gather things up, so she heads to the door, swiping at her eyes, hoping her emotions aren't painted too clearly across her face.

But it's him, and when he stands beneath the doorframe and catches her eye, she knows he can see right through her. He's the one person who can always see. It doesn't matter how tightly buckled or zipped or polished her exterior is, he's always able to see. The mess and the clutter, the chaos and the confusion, he knows the things that bubble beneath her surface, whether she tries to hide them or not.

And she's trying her damnedest right now. To hide them. To put on a happy face, to look as if she's pleased as punch he's stopped by on this fine and dandy Sunday, for absolutely no reason at all.

"Mulder, what brings you by this evening?" she says through a forced smile, all shining teeth and up-turned lips, and eyes that can't quite look at him directly.

"Cut the crap, Scully," he answers back sadly, as he places his hand along her bicep and squeezes, the sensation travelling immediately up her arm and settling in her tear ducts, spurring them once more into motion. "I came by to see how you're doing, how you've held up this weekend."

She turns away, shaking her head, hoping by some miracle that he'll take this as a cue to leave, that he'll let her be, in her chaos and her misery, in her spilled-wide-open mess of a life.

But this is Mulder, and when has Mulder ever let her be? When has he ever given her space or room to breathe? And how fiercely has she grown to love him because of this?

He follows her into the apartment, and she hears his sigh as he notices her purse and its contents splayed across the floor. "Oh Scully," he murmurs, as he crouches down to pick up the mess.

He gathers her things, and she can't help but watch, can't help but wish it were all so easy, to pick up the wreckage and tuck it away, safe and sound and hidden from view.

"What happened?" his voice is soft against the quiet of the room, as he places the items onto her table.

"Nothing, Mulder. Nothing," she lies, fully aware of her absurdity, "I dropped my purse, that's all. In fact, I was just about to watch some TV."

And though she'd had no intention of doing anything of the sort, she plays her part beautifully and actually picks up the remote. Anything, anything, not to have this conversation.

But on her way to the couch, he stops her. He grips her shoulders and tilts his head, chasing her eyes as she tries her hardest to turn away. "Scully, talk to me," he is firm, insistent, yet also so tender she feels the words flutter against her chest in agony, begging for a response.

She runs her tongue along her lower lip and looks to the ceiling, grasping for control, looking for some way to steady her voice, some way to contain the tears that are pressing, pressing against the backs of her eyes. "I'm fine, Mulder," she whispers into the air above their heads, but her breath catches on his name, and her lip quivers, and he draws her into the curve of his chest before the tears even begin to fall.

"I'm fine," she chokes against his shirt, even though they both know she is far from fine, she's miles away from fine.

He pulls them to the couch and sits them down, then gathers her once again into the fold of his arms. "Shhhhh, Scully, I know," he murmurs as he presses his lips to her temple.

And though she's tempted to run, tempted to wrench herself away and deny that she needs this, she can't bring herself to do it. Because she knows she'd be lying. She needs him. So much. She needs to fall apart like this, to spill herself into his arms and let his strong hands hold her together. She can't do it on her own anymore. Her zippers are breaking, her seams are straining, she is stuffing so much inside, she is ready to burst.

And as he strokes his fingers through her hair, and pulls her head against his shoulder, she finally allows herself. She bursts against him in a massive, chaotic rush, sobbing into his chest, clutching at his shirt, overflowing against him with days and weeks and months of emotion. She hands it all to him. Sadness, anger, desperation. And he accepts it without question. He takes it into his heart and shares her burden.

She doesn't need to tell him, to explain to him her pain, because it's become his pain, too. And the way his lips shush against her forehead, the way his hands stroke against her back, in every way he touches her, he shows her he understands. And she's so grateful for that, because putting this turmoil into words seems an unbearable task at this point.

She cries, so many tears there are none left to spill. Her body is left weary and exhausted, and all that remains is an empty shell.

And after, quietly curled together in the darkness that has descended upon the early evening, her hitching breaths have calmed. Their bodies have slumped further, until she is draped beneath his arm, her head pillowed upon his chest, their legs tangled across the cushions.

So much time passes, she almost falls asleep. She /should/ fall asleep, God knows she needs some rest.

She either should fall asleep, or she should disentangle herself from his arms and send him on his way. Thank you for comforting me, but really, I'm fine now, you're free to leave.

She really should do one of those things, but she doesn't. Because she is too focused on the hollowness, the dull ache that has blossomed inside her body now that she has emptied everything else. She would have thought that releasing her emotions would have freed her, but it has instead done the complete opposite. It has created a vacuum, a sucking within her core that aches like a phantom limb. Like a crucial piece of her body has been removed.

Like the child that could have been growing there has been brutally ripped from her womb, because her fucking body couldn't do what it was supposed to do, couldn't do what women's bodies have been doing since the beginning of time. She has become an empty, hollow cavern, a wasteland incapable of producing fruit, a woman who is no longer really a woman.

Barren. The word plays in her head again and again. How is she supposed to feel like a woman, how is she supposed to feel like anything more than a useless hull, when her body is forever broken, when she is empty?

In her anguish, she has almost forgotten he is there, but when he shifts slightly against her, his arm brushes the side of her breast. And though her mind is elsewhere, the sensation splices through, interrupting her ruminations and rushing its way through her body, settling in her core.

And it startles her. Because for a second, the ache lessens. For a second, she feels something besides dull, numbing pain. For a second, she feels like a woman again. And God, she needs that. She needs that desperately.

But after a moment, the sensation lessens. It begins to fade away, and the emptiness re-emerges. And she panics, wanting it, craving it, needing something, anything, to make her feel that way again.

Before she's thought it through, her lips are on his neck, open, moist. He gasps, but the sound barely penetrates the fog of her brain, and she keeps going, sliding her tongue along his skin, gathering the salt and tasting it. Taking it into her body and filling just the tiniest bit of the void with him.

He starts to speak, but she quickly silences him, sealing her lips over his and swallowing the sound, sucking at him, feeding off him until she begins to feel something again.

She climbs across his lap and straddles him, then presses her body so tightly against him it hurts. But she's feeling. She's not empty, she's not numb, she feels like a woman. He reaches for her, wanting to engage, but she moves his arms away, needing this to be on her own terms. It's selfish, she realizes this, but it's the only way she knows how to exist right now.

She leans away and puts her hands on his shoulders, grips them, then lowers her head until their foreheads connect. He is hard beneath her already, and it thrills her to know that her body could do this, that it isn't completely useless. She rolls her hips against him once, and he groans. Then she does it again, and he arches to meet her. Her body is suddenly alive, is suddenly thrumming with the bloom of arousal, and it feels so damn good, she wants to cry.

But no more tears, no more tears because she wants to experience this, she wants to grind herself against him until she explodes, until she is so full of being a woman, she no longer realizes what's missing.

She undulates her body, pressing her clit against the hardness of his cock, her breasts against the warmth of his chest, her cheek against the scrape of his jaw. His hands reach out once again, and this time, she doesn't stop him. She moans softly as he grasps her hips and grinds her further into the tilt of his pelvis. Her hands find their way into his hair, and she clutches his face against her neck, drawing in her breath when she feels his tongue slide along her pulse.

She finds a rhythm, a rolling wave of movement, sliding into the sand of his body, then sucking back out into the depths of the ocean, until he is meeting her tide and spurring her on with the urgent surge of his hips.

He grunts with each thrust, and the sound awakens her further, coaxing restrained hums from her throat as she meets him again and again. Her nipples are tight and aching beneath her clothes, and without thinking, she pulls his hands from her hips and places them upon her breasts. And as he cups his hands and squeezes, she can't help but arch herself against him. The groan that escapes his mouth makes her wetter than she's been in years.

God, she feels like a teenager again, necking on the downstairs couch, with no greater worry than the danger of being caught by her parents. Oh, to be that innocent again. But Mulder is much better at this than her high-school boyfriend was, and if she doesn't think too hard, she can almost pretend she is still that innocent, that her life hasn't been turned completely on its end in the last twenty years.

He is kneading her breasts, thumbing her nipples through her blouse and her bra, and she pants alongside his ear with her eyes closed, reveling in the sensations, in the heaviness of her body as she writhes against him. His lips play along her neck and her jaw, and she tries her hardest to keep from whimpering.

"Scul…," he tries to speak again, but no. No, she can't. She can't let it be more than this right now. She can only handle this much.

She pushes her fingers against his mouth to silence him, unwilling to break the spell with their voices. He kisses them and sucks them inside, and this time, she can't stop her whimper. She presses her lips to his temple, loving him so desperately it frightens her, loving that he understands, that he is willing to give her what she needs on this terrible, wonderful night.

He releases her fingers, and draws her fiercely into his chest, enfolding her, gripping at her shoulders, pressing her body down into his pelvis and rising roughly to meet her. She surges against him with a gasp, surprised at his sudden intensity, yet so, so ready for it. Her clit is instantly throbbing for him, and she grinds herself down, into his cock hard and fast, suddenly frantic for the release she knows he can give her.

She tucks herself into the heat of his neck and focuses on her cunt, dripping, aching, vibrating with need. He is so hard against her, she's breathless. And he's thrusting against her with such precision, grinding against her swollen clit so beautifully, she can't help but groan into the hollow of his neck, her lips sliding against his skin like rainfall. She presses her knees deep into the couch, trying to sink lower, lower, deeper into him, harder into his cock.

Their bodies move in utter tandem, undulating, writhing, faster and faster, an avalanche gaining momentum as it plunges down a mountain. God, she is so caught up in the frenzy, she hardly notices when he clenches her hair in his fists and emits a guttural cry, frantically pumping against her in release. She hardly notices because she is unravelling as well. Her threads are coming undone, she is splitting, splitting, bursting apart because she is so full right now. So full of him, so full of pleasure, so full of feeling like a woman again, after everything that has been taken away from her. Her mouth opens in a silent sob against his throat, and she bucks against him one more time, violently gripping his shoulders as she ruptures within his arms.

They sink against each other, heavy and fluid, heaving with gasping breaths as they recover. His fingers draw lazy circles on her lower back while she breathes in his scent, sweat and sex, until slowly, slowly, she realizes what she's done. Oh my God, what has she done?

She stiffens against him, pulling herself away from the warmth of his body. His fingers stop and rest on her hips. "Scully…," he pleads.

But she is already getting up, climbing out of his lap, and his hands trail down her legs as she stands. "Umm, thank you for coming over, Mulder. Really," she says it without looking at him, she says it to the wall on the opposite side of the room. "But umm, I'm fine now, really. Thank you."

With that, she turns away from the couch and picks up her handbag from the table, stuffing the stray items back inside as she hurries into the bedroom and quietly shuts the door.

She sits on the bed with her purse in her lap and tries to control her breathing. Her heart is pounding so harshly in her chest, she fears she may pass out. Jesus, what has she just done? How could she have let this happen?

In her desire to empty herself of pain, she has gone too far. She has filled herself with things she's not even sure are real, yet also spilled herself so wide open, she has no boundaries left. She doesn't know if she is ready to be this exposed, this vulnerable. She doesn't know if she can hand this much of herself over to him yet. The thought terrifies her.

She rubs her hands absently across the leather of her bag while trying to make sense of the mess she may have just created. Her fingernail catches on a thread, and she looks down. In her burst of desperation earlier, when she flung her purse across the room, the stress must have ripped a seam. She examines the bag, assessing the damage, and realizes that through the hole, she can see the contents within. But, it's a fairly simple fix, and she welcomes the idea of getting her mind off things, even if for just a few moments.

She reaches to her bedside table and finds her mending kit in the drawer. She threads the needle and begins the repair. In and out, in and out, the needle pulls the leather back together, and her breaths begin to calm.

Her heartbeat quiets.

She makes a mental note to put tampons on the shopping list, and she hears the front door close.


End file.
